


French perfume

by Hypatia_66



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Challenge Response, Community: section7mfu, Episode Related, F/M, Gen, Het
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 15:23:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15952112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: LJ Short Challenge affair. Prompts: engine, brownLike other original MFU storylines, the outcome of the Napoleon’s Tomb affair was belied by the body language…





	French perfume

Caught by Edgar’s sleep dart in the warehouse, Illya woke to find himself tied to one of its pillars. He lifted his head, struggled and, quite unable to free himself, looked around. Tied to another pillar was the young woman Candyce who had been kidnapped on her way out of the hotel wearing a dress that suggested she had intended to be somewhere very different from this. Beyond her was Napoleon, also tied up. How did that happen? It didn’t bode well.

Things went from bad to worse and, next, Illya was strung up high, his whole weight hanging from his wrists. Napoleon was now laid out on the floor, shouting useless instructions. But fate or luck took a hand: successfully insulted by Illya, Edgar the giant angrily untied the rope and dropped him onto the hard, concrete floor where instead of breaking an ankle he fought with Edgar and, having stabbed him with a sleep dart, narrowly avoided being brained by a mallet.

With Edgar safely out of the way, he rapidly untied his partner then went to Candyce and was enveloped in a subtle French perfume. Reaching across her to release her wrists, his cheek was close enough to kiss, which she did, momentarily paralysing him – then they turned to run.

Too late; their escape was checked by the entrance of two more goons. During the ensuing fight, Candyce managed to climb onto a box and used the mallet to effect on the gigantic Edgar who had shaken off the effects of the sleep dart. Illya left Napoleon bending over him to see if he were still alive and went to help Candyce down from her box. Even in that tight dress she could perfectly well have managed it for herself but when she found herself in Illya’s arms she allowed him to lift her down. He once more breathed in her perfume and forgot to remove his hands from around her slim waist.

“I’ll take Candyce back to the hotel,” he said to Napoleon

“Yeah, sure,” Napoleon said, still kneeling beside Edgar trying to wake him up.

They found a taxi, a very old and noisy one so there was no opportunity for conversation. He couldn’t think how to say what he’d like to say, anyway. Candyce had been on the hotel reception desk when he was pretending to be employed there – he could hardly have failed to notice her: even among Parisiennes, she was beautiful. Sitting beside her, Illya wondered if she ever noticed other hotel staff… could she tell what he was thinking? … he turned to look out of the window, tried not to look at, let alone touch her – she was a president’s future wife. The ancient taxi rattled along, its engine pumping in tune with his heart. She was flung against him and clutched his arm instead of moving away… remained close… perhaps she was cold? It was a warm night…He turned and stared into even warmer brown eyes … he felt his heart miss a beat and for a fleeting moment thought … then the taxi pulled up with a jerk and they fell apart.

The President had disappeared – apparently to visit Napoleon’s tomb, which wouldn’t even be open at this ungodly hour. Once again, they left the hotel and in the early morning light found a second taxi to take them to the Invalides. It was a newer one with less engine noise to prevent speech and they were still alone together. Illya took her hand and spoke with difficulty. “Candyce, are you sure about the step you’re taking? The President is not a young man – he must be more than twice your age.”

She squeezed his hand. “Yes, I’m sure. Monsieur Tunick needs someone beside him whom he can trust, someone to guide him when he’s in a rage. He is a very lonely man – he needs me. He is in love. I can love him, make him happy.”

“Will he make _you_ happy? You are so …” Illya stammered, “…there must be many _young_ men who…”

“But not _you._ ” She smiled a little sadly. “Not you. I know that. But don’t forget, I’m French,“ she said enigmatically. He blinked and she reached up to touch his cheek. “Embrasse-moi, mon coeur – une fois. Rien qu’une fois.”

“Just once,” he said, lost now and unresistingly complying with this request. “Voilà … et après?”

“Et après… for me, marriage. For you, many kisses with many women, j’en suis sûre.”

“Maybe,” he said and took her face between his hands. “Une dernière fois, alors,” he whispered and kissed her again, just once more, and let her go.

The taxi driver, a sentimentalist, watched this in the mirror and sighed.

<><><> 

The President sat holding his bride-to-be crushed in his arms, attended by the UNCLE agents and their chief. Napoleon became aware of an intense quality in Illya’s gaze and watched him, at first curiously and then a little anxiously. Glancing at the President and Candyce, and seeing where her gaze fell, gulped, realising his anxiety was justified. Paris wasn’t safe for susceptible Russians. The sooner he got him home again, the better.

Mr Waverly, on the other hand, cynically observing one of the unavoidable consequences of putting handsome young men together with beautiful young women, rose to give a toast and break up the scene a little. The absurd discovery of the waiter’s earlier duplicity diverted attention further and Napoleon breathed again. President Tunick noticed nothing – he was being Napoleonic now he had his Josephine.

<><><><> 


End file.
